V4 Solitary
by Laatija
Summary: Detective John Sheppard closes in on Specter, a newly emerging group of Wraith Worshipers - Only he manages to get caught up in something much more dangerous...himself. Chapter 4 in the Vegas Verse series - Now Complete


**Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis but I do own the upgrades for a certain colonel and major that appear in this story – in my opinion anyway…not that it would hold up in court or anything…**

**Solitary**

----

It was July. The forth had come and gone. Celebrations for independence were coming to a close. Three murder cases had been solved over past three days. John had closed one of those homicides personally and yet still didn't get much more than a nod in his direction. Still it had been a productive summer weekend.

So what was going to go wrong next?

The work at Area 51 was interesting. Half of the stuff they'd brought in was either broken or didn't work the way it was supposed to work to begin with. The other half was usually valuable enough that they pulled John off the research before he really had a chance to play with it. All of the stuff was cool. Plus, he was getting to be accepted at the military base. John had even made a few friends…as well as flirted with more than a few secretaries. The Wraith was still at large. John was in the middle of four cases, two of them involved the so called Wraith Worshipers. One involved a small drug lord wanna be. The other case…well…that was the one that had them all on edge.

It was a kidnapping. Amy, the daughter of big casino owner David Whitehouse had been grabbed five days ago. The kidnapper kept his head down and his hands clean so far. The guy was quiet; no demands for ransom. The only evidence they had that the girl just hadn't run away was a blurry security tape. The unofficial verdict around the station was grim: the girl was probably dead by now. But John wasn't ready to write her off just yet. Even despite his optimism, John could feel the stress increasing…building... He felt like a bottle of coke after it's been shaken up. So much pressure—

"Detective?" Zelenka's voice broke through John's thought process. He rubbed at his eyes and sniffed.

"Yeah?" John frowned at how rough his voice sounded.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just a little tired. What do you want me to touch?" John looked intently at the pile of unprocessed artifacts that sat on the table.

"Here, try to activate this," the scientist said, handing him a flat oval plate.

"What is it?" John asked, taking the thing. Jackson looked up from behind the pile of books that sat on his desk from the other side of the room.

"All I've found on it says something about a disguise," Jackson insisted. John didn't even look up at him. Over the past few weeks, the three men had developed a good system. They somehow meshed into a team of sorts.

"So how do I make it work?" John asked. He fingered the device, hesitant to try and activate it without more information. He'd nearly lost three fingers and a thumb from doing that.

"Just…think on," Jackson offered. John frowned.

"You sure it won't blow up?"

"I'm sure it's not a weapon."

John didn't say anything. He closed his eyes and concentrated on turning the thing on. He felt an increasingly familiar connection form with the cold piece of metal. "Is it doing anything?" he asked, eyes still closed.

"Oh wow…" Daniel muttered from across the room. John opened his eyes. Both Zelenka and Jackson were staring at him.

"What?" John demanded. "What's it doing?"

"You are…invisible," Zelenka sputtered.

"Seriously?" John waved a hand in front of his eyes. A smile crept up on his face. He didn't see it. "This is cool."

"Can you turn it off?" Jackson asked.

"I don't know…" John wasn't sure he wanted to just yet. He walked around the table, as quietly as possible, and stood next to Zelenka. The man stared at the spot he'd been occupying. John couldn't help the giddy grin that was stuck onto his face. Daniel glanced around the room with narrowed eyes.

"Sheppard?"

"Yeah?" John snorted a laugh when the scientist jumped at the unexpected voice at his side.

"Oh, very mature," Jackson chastised.

"You'd do the same thing," John shot back. Jackson thought about it for a minute before nodding. John mentally deactivated the device. Just as he did, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

"Sheppard," John said smartly when he flipped open the phone. Some grunt down at the station was prattling on in the official police babble. John didn't really pay attention. He fingered the flat cloaking disk thing, shooting Jackson an excited expression. John angled the phones mouth piece away from his lips. "They aren't going to let us keep this, are they," he said as more of a statement then a question. Daniel gave him a knowing smile and shook his head.

"It's not very likely," the man concluded.

"To bad." The man on the other end of the telephone conversation was sounding very confused by this point. "I wasn't talking to you," John told the phone. "Why exactly are you calling again?"

_"Chief wants you down here. A development in the kidnapping case."_

John was suddenly very still. His excitement siphoned out of his body and was replaced by a cool sense of dread. The two doctors in the room shared a knowing glance. This wasn't the first time John had been called away by his "real" job.

"Is she still alive?"

"_We think so."_

Zelenka wordlessly handed John his coat. John nodded thanks and gave them both a small wave before he trotted out the door. "I'm on my way over," John said before he snapped his phone shut.

The drive over grew steadily more and more tense as he mused over case. The guy didn't call, didn't ask for a ransom. So why did he kidnap her? What motive was there? Need. This freak _needed_ the girl for something. Or he just wanted the girl. No need. At least, no normal, non-perverted need. Sick son of a—

John stomped on the breaks as the light suddenly turned red in front of his car. He slammed the heel of his hand into the steering wheel. His anger at this perv was festering. Sick sick sick! He wheeled into the department parking lot, squealing the tires as he slid into his designated spot. John burst through the doors and tromped into building that was alive with the scurrying defenders of Las Vegas' virtue, such as it was.

He made his meandering way through the throngs of desks and people to the corner of the room that was obviously devoted to the kidnapping. Several white boards with all sorts of pictures and lines were set up in a semi circle around a couple of desks.

"Someone tell me what's going on," John snapped smartly as he stepped into the thick of it. But no one hopped up to volunteer any information. A few heads snuck upwards from paper work and phone calls to shoot him confused glances.

"Sheppard!" Mason's voice grated past his ears.

"What's going on, Chief?" John demanded, half turning his body to meet the oncoming man.

"I'm pulling you off of this case."

Beat.

Breathe.

John blinked: narrowed his eyes. "You can't take me off. I'm in charge of the case."

"Yeah, I put you in charge but you're not doing your job," Mason bit.

"What do you mean?" John could feel his anger swelling now. "This is my case, Mason." His voice rose in volume.

"Back off detective. I'm taking you off. You're spending too much time with your little government buddies to be a good cop on this one."

"They need me," John insisted. His lip curled up a bit in annoyance.

"For God knows what," Mason muttered. "You're hardly good for anything as it is."

John very nearly lost it then. He felt himself grow very very still, face tensed up in anger. He didn't trust himself to speak so he let the anger clamp his jaws shut painfully tight. His boss leveled a cool, disapproving glare at him.

"Cool off, Sheppard. Then get back to your other cases. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yeah," John growled past clenched teeth. He retreated to the safety of his tiny office. Shock dropped his butt firmly in his uncomfortable chair. How could he be taken off this late in the game? He was a good cop and a dang good detective. He'd had it under control so what the heck? Sure Area 51 took away a lot of his time but he was actually on the ball with…life. For the first time in a long time life was beginning to take a definitive form, something that he could see and track and follow. It was exhilarating being able to focus like this again. John's existence didn't revolve around cheap shots at fame and money anymore or scraping together a pathetic living off of his job.

Way to go and squash that Chief Mason.

John cursed and took out his frustration on his desk for a few seconds, sending pencils and loose papers flying. His nostrils were flaring when he calmed down enough to sit quietly. He gave his desk one last shove for good measure then pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes against the oncoming headache that was starting to throb behind his eyes.

Distract. Pull your mind away from this. You aren't a five year old, stop acting like it. This is not the end to life, the universe, and everything.

Don't Panic.

Reluctantly, John reached for one of the only files left on his desk. Part of the Wraith case, as he liked to call it. Around here the Wraith worshipers were thought to be no more than a new gang that was emerging on the streets. A pseudo-religious group of zealots who operated under the name Specter. Just another bothersome gang, that's what they thought. John knew better. It was like some cosmic inside joke that only he and the alien boys at area 51 knew about. John was unofficially in charge of the Specter cases. Mainly because no one else wanted them. Which apparently was just fine with the FBI.

He hated his job.

No, correction: he hated the Las Vegas Police Department.

Now focus. Focus on the wraith case. Go catch some bad guys.

La de da.

John looked at the folder for a second. A purple post-it was stuck on the outside. A hastily scribbled note was written on it: _Maggie called_. Huh. He'd almost forgotten about that entirely. Informants, John had a whole page of them in the back of his address book. Five were in his cell phone. Three were on speed dial. Maggie was one of them.

XxX

John leaned back against the hood of his car. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, hazy neon lights, and good old fashioned pollution. Nighttime pushed closely to the city, only held back by the artificial brightness that was Las Vegas. The building behind him pulsed and buzzed angrily with the thudding music. Inside, hot sweaty bodies packed tightly into the smallish club, reduced to sloshy slabs of motile flesh and primitive sexual instincts.

John never did like clubbing.

There was a sudden swell in the volume of the garish thudding of a base and John cocked his head to watch a barely clothed woman slip out the heavy metal side exit. John winced. Woman was pushing it. This girl was maybe eighteen. _Maybe_. The knee high hooker boots were the most coverage the kid had. They certainly had more fabric then the sash of a skirt and the two cloth triangles that covered her chest.

The girl was begging to get laid.

Idiot.

Maggie glanced around the alleyway and spotted John. She teetered on her four inch heels to his car.

"Jon-Boy."

John blinked. "Whacha got for me, Maggs?"

The girl cocked her hip and flipped back long bleach blond hair. "My girl friend's dating a guy whose roommate knows a guy who's trying to join Specter."

That was Maggie. Knows a guy who knows a guy. Not the most reliable sounding but her info was good eighty-five percent of the time – not bad for someone who wasn't a legal adult.

"Got a name and number?"

She slipped a hand into her blouse – if you could call it that – and pulled out a silver gum wrapper. "Why you lookin' for these guys anyway?"

"They're annoying," John muttered as he took the wrapper.

"Well they're hard to track down." She crossed her arms and stared at him.

"Yeah well I'll be sure not to call your mom for at least a couple of months," he promised.

"Thanks Jon-Boy."

"No problem Maggs. Be careful out there."

She flashed him a bold smile. "Always, copper-man."

Maggie sashayed back inside to a fanfare of pulsating lights and screeching music. John squinted in the darkness of the alleyway. Alex Moyers name was scrawled in black ink above a series of numbers. John shoved the paper into his pocket.

XxX

Moyers apartment was buried in a rat infested stink hole of a building. John parked his car under the only functioning streetlamp on this block and muttered a quick prayer for its safety. He trotted lightly up several flights of squeaky, ill-lit stairs and down a hallway to door 407. John pounded on the door. He didn't shout 'this is the police' or anything stupid like that. The bad guys didn't just willingly open the door for cops. He kept his mouth shut and kept pounding until he heard the first of several locks being unlocked. The door cracked open and a gold chain snapped taut across the opening.

"Yeah?" The bleary eyed ultra pale face blinked lethargically at John.

"Alex Moyers?"

The kid hesitated. Bingo. "What do you want?"

John flashed both his badge and his gun. "I want to talk. Open the door."

Alex eyed him warily. "What's this about?"

"Look, relax. You aren't in trouble," John promised.

An expression of resignation flashed across Moyers face. He shut the door and John could hear the rattle of the chain being slid off the track before the door opened again. Moyers was in a pair of boxers and a stained wife-beater. His short blond hair was awkwardly splayed out across his skull.

"Mind if I come in?" John asked as he brushed his way past the younger man.

"What do you want?"

The kid was a broken record.

John slowly took in the shabby furnishings that reminded him of a struggling college student. Paint was peeling off the walls. A thick layer of dust covered most everything. The guy's closet had regurgitated onto the modest living room. He took it all in with an eyebrow arched stare.

"Hey, what do you want, man?" Moyers planted himself in front of John.

"Specter."

John couldn't be sure but he thought Moyers had lightened a shade.

"What about 'em?"

"What do you know about them?"

Moyers studied John for a moment with narrow eyes, assessing the situation. Finally he shrugged. "It's an exclusive cult. Tough to get in."

"What sort of cult?"

Shrug. "I don't know. Something different though."

"You don't know? And you wanna join them?" John scoffed.

Moyers gave him an exasperated look. "Hey man, I'm just trying to figure out life, y'know? These guys are different. I thought I'd see what they're all about."

Sure, figure out life. John highly doubted Moyers desire to figure out his closet, let alone the complexities of .

"Where are they?"

"In the warehouse down on Franklyn Street."

John paused. "This seems too easy."

Moyers shrugged. "I'm just trying out some different stuff, y'know? This isn't worth getting into trouble over." The guy shifted uncomfortably. "And they wouldn't let me join. It's not like I want to protect them or anything."

A small smirk pushed up the corner of John's mouth. Ah ha. The wondrous power of revenge. At times it was a detective's best friend. Or mortal enemy. "Consider yourself lucky, these guys are like Jim Jones on crack." John turned to leave. "Thanks for the help."

"Oh wait; they gave me something you might want to see." Alex dug through a pile of clothes on the floor. He produced a small egg shaped object. It was a milky white glass thing. "She said if it did anything to let her know."

"She who?" John asked as he took the proffered object. It was smooth and abnormally cold in his hands.

"Bella. She's the one who's I've been talking to."

"Has it done anything?"

Moyers shook his head. "Nope." He smirked. "I not technically supposed to keep it. You can have it, if you want."

"Thanks." John slipped it into his pocket. He nodded at the kid. "And thanks again for your cooperation."

"No problem."

XxX

John peered at the seemingly warehouse. He sat in his car, the darkness of the abandoned ghettos settling like a net over him. For the past twenty minutes there was no movement around the largish building. John just sat in silence and contemplated his next move.

He really had no idea what he was getting himself into here. Were these guys hostile? Would they be if they knew who he was? Most certainly. So what was he doing here? How was this going to help out his case?

John blinked.

Screw the case. There was a freakin' Wraith on the loose and Specter was probably the best chance of getting to it.

So, ok. He could just…go inside. Maybe go in the back door. Snoop around; see what was to be seen.

John pulled the smooth egg shaped orb from his pocket and rolled it around in his hand while he strategized. Thus far, he had seen no one enter or exit the building. No guards or sentries made any sort of visible circuit in the past twenty minutes. Of course, there could always be cameras. But the lack of life bothered him. Who's to say this was even the right building? Moyers could have been lying. Or Specter could have moved. Or—

John sucked in a breath through his nostrils. He frowned. There was suddenly a very small tug at his mind. Nothing so much as a gentle coaxing, not harsh or invasive. Just a tug at some unused portion of his brain. Humans had that, a massive percentage of the brain that was unused. And something called to a part of that now. But this didn't alarm him. He was surprised but not because this feeling was foreign but because it wasn't supposed to be _here._ John cautiously yielded to the pull and suddenly warmth ballooned in his hand. John stared at the egg thing, once white and now swirling with brilliant color. It tingled in his palm and radiated a gentle heat.

His eyebrows scrunched downward in a confused frown.

This, the thing that Specter had given to Moyers, was most certainly not Wraith. It was – what did they call it? – Ancient. _Ancient_ technology. The kind that interacted with his genes.

What the _crap?_

John dropped the orb in his lap and fumbled around for his phone, whipping the thing open and punching in a number.

"Jackson?"

"_Sheppard? It's…" _Daniel sighed. _"It's two in the morning, what do you want?"_

"I, uh, I found something."

"_Wonderful, bring it in tomorrow. Er…today. Whatever."_

"Something's not right though," John pressed. "A Wraith had it."

"_What?"_

"It's definitely Ancient but Specter had it. They were using it as some…some sort of test." John paused. A test. Then they had to know what it was. And that only a few people could pass the test.

Daniel was mumbling something that John wasn't paying attention to. His mind was spinning. In his hands was the perfect opportunity to get in.

"Look, sorry for waking you up. I gotta go."

"_What? Where are you going? Sheppard? What are you doin—"_

John snapped the phone shut. He shoved it and the orb into his pocket then pushed the car door open. The warehouse had one obvious entrance so John took it. The hallway beyond the door was barely lit and stretched out to his left and right. For a moment, John wondered if anyone was here at all. But then a small black ball in the ceiling caught his eye.

John fixed the camera with a crooked grin and winked. They probably already knew he was here. It was generally better to act as though you knew what was going on then play dumb. In some cases, anyway…

He stared at the camera for a few more seconds before turning smartly to his right and sashaying down the corridor. As each step landed on the cold, well waxed floor a very small amount of John's extravagant bull-headed courage slipped away. The ominous clacking of his own feet made him nervous. His fingers slid uneasily around the orb in his pocket, as if the Ancient device could defend him from the shadows.

A minute crept by. A few closed doors stood in silent greeting as he passed them. A feeling snuck up on him. It was one of those feelings that sorta slides up your spine and siphons the air out of your lungs. Some called it the spidey-sense. Women called it intuition. John called it creepy. He stopped walking and just listened. There was a hiss of steam going through pipes and an electric hum from some unseen light. And a faint swish of fabric against a finely waxed floor.

John wheeled sharply to his left and met an oncoming fist with a raised arm. The blow was like a sledge hammer in the hands of John Henry. It glanced off of John's forearm as he swung around to face what he had thought to be a figment of his imagination. The next strike came too quickly. A gloved fist caught him on the side of the head. Hard. His ears started ringing and the world went fuzzy. John cursed as he listed to one side, a hand floating to an ear he was sure was bleeding. Someone grabbed his arms and wrenched them back, completely screwing with his sense of equilibrium. A black cloth sack was shoved over his head and someone very strong and very solid thrust him forward. John automatically resisted traveling so blindly. His knees locked up and he planted his feet. There was a muttered and muffled curse before his assailant kicked him behind the knee cap, crumpling the mulish stance. Before he had a chance to fully recover, John was dragged.

The waxed floor tugged at his pants as he was pulled along. His shirt had come un-tucked and hitched up uncomfortably around his arms, leaving a sliver of his belly exposed to brush against the cool surface of the floor.

John had his wits successfully gathered enough by this point to hear three sets of hurried footsteps. Whoever these people were, they were light on their feet. The swish of fabric made him think of long trench coats and tight shiny leather and dark sunglasses and sexy women named Trinity.

_Get a grip, John._

His hosts yanked him upwards by his arms hard enough for him to consider the integrity of his shoulder sockets with more than a tinge of discomfort. Then his butt hit a hard wooden surface and his unpleasant journey was finished – for now.

The sack was whisked upward and John blinked in the sudden intense light that beamed in his direction. He squinted and dug the heel of his hand into his eye socket. "Nice welcome wagon," he snapped to whoever was listening. "A little rough maybe but it's nothing your boys can't work on."

A shadowy figure moved behind the light source. "What do you want?"

John forced a carefree expression onto his face. "Nice to meet you too. My name is Frank."

"A pleasure, Frank. Now what do you want?" The voice was as smooth as silk. John had a hard time assigning a gender to it.

"I have something that I think you guys want," John said casually. He suddenly realized that he didn't have much of a plan. What to do after he got in? Get back out? What was the point of all of this?

No. No time to second guess. He was already too far in to back out now.

"What could you possibly have that I want?"

John reached for his pocket and there was suddenly a blade at his throat and a hand wrenching his head back. John slowly raised his hands. "Easy, just take it easy." His hands were suddenly slick with sweat.

There was a very long sickening second or two when John thought that the pressure at his neck was suddenly going to increase to a lethal level.

His heart beat a little faster than before.

"Continue," the smooth voice said. Neither the blade at his neck nor the hand on his head moved. John slowly slid his hand into his pocket and his fingers curled around the smooth orb. He gave a half seconds hesitation before swiftly drawing it out. The milky opaque egg thing glowed dully in the intense spot light. It slipped a fraction of an inch in his palm.

"I hear you guys are handing these out."

"Where did you get that?" the voice asked. It sounded mildly amused.

"I know a guy who knows a guy," John insisted. "That's not the point."

"Pray, tell me what_ is_ the point?"

"That I can do this—" John poured a small portion of his energy into the eager link between him and the device. It grew warm. The gentle rainbows of alien color somehow managed to cancel out some of the spotlights intensity and lit up a pale face beyond in a whirling wash of hues. A crooked smile broke up the symmetry of the face that John still couldn't assign a gender to. The large dark eyes gleamed in a way that spoke to something deeply disturbing lurking in their depths. A black stain of a tribal tattoo trailed down a strong jawbone and twisted around an abnormally long neck.

"I enjoy your style, Franklyn," the face said. John managed a smile.

"Thanks. Now can you tell your goon to get his mitts off of me?"

The eyes flicked to the person behind John and a barely perceptible nod reached across the space between them. Instantly the pressure eased away. John cracked his neck. "Thanks again."

"Now, Franklyn, what exactly do you want from me?"

"What, Specter not taking recruits anymore?"

The crocked smile dropped. "You are a curious man to know so much." The tone was a bit more suspicious.

"You think I'd get this thing and not know who gave it to me?" John challenged.

"So you are resourceful as well as stylish. You may indeed fit in well here, my friend."

"That mean you'll take me?"

"We have much to discuss first." A light suddenly turned on overhead and the burning spotlight in front of him snapped off, leaving a reddish shadow dancing on his irises for a few seconds until John blinked it away.

"Such as?" John asked.

"Such as your motive for joining," said the man in front of him. At least, he thought it was a man. The figure was standing in front of him with arms firmly crossed in front of a leather clad chest. It wasn't exactly a long trench coat – more like a short biker jacket and baggy black Goth jeans, the kind that were impossibly bulky and uncomfortable looking. The man had a mane of long pencil thin dreads, platinum blond.

John let his smile drop. "Motive." He leaned forward. "I got a freaky ability, no job, no family, and nowhere to go. How's that for motive?"

"Do you have a last name, Franklyn?"

"No."

The man studied him for a moment, seemingly bemused. "I need a few moments to discuss this with my superiors. Please wait here," he said as if John had much of a choice in the matter.

"Hey," John called to the retreating figure, "got a name?"

The man paused. A cold spark lit up his eyes. "Othello."

XxX

More than an hour had passed since Othello had left. John had been frisked after he'd left – being relieved of his phone, his gun, and whatever else had been in his pockets. It made him more than a little nervous. After the frisk, the goons left: both of them strong and with an intelligence not often seen in henchmen. That left John alone in the small concrete room. It was seven steps long and five across. A literal spotlight was in one corner, the large instrument tilted downward, unplugged with no visible outlets in the room. A single incandescent bulb lit the space from above. One heavy metal door that was locked. A camera blinked from the corner.

_Good job John. Way to get yourself locked in a room with no phone and no weapon. Way to go._

He paced, sliding his hand along the rough walls. What exactly was he doing? This whole fiasco seemed more and more foolish as the time passed. He'd hoped to accomplish…what? Digging into Specter? Was this the way to do it? Well, sure. A bit unorthodox maybe but it worked. He was simply going undercover. With no backup and no one who knew where he was…

Or was he really joining Specter? It was a thought that he'd tried to keep well buried. But in the silence and solitude, the worm of an idea had snuck up to the surface.

Why not? Because it was a group who followed a blood sucking alien. This was bad. But was it? They hadn't been pinned with anything more heinous than theft and vandalism so far. How bad was that? There hadn't been any creepy corpses after the initial alien. Maybe this guy had learned a lesson. And they seemed to want him.

No. This was stupid.

End of story.

He was here to learn…everything that he could. Really, it was a fairly brilliant plan. So little was known about Specter and how they operated. Any information at this point would be priceless. Now he just had to live to tell the tale.

John felt the weariness of the past week climb on top of his shoulders to force him to the floor. With nothing to do, he yielded to it, letting his mind wander freely as he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. It surprised John to realize now just how tired he really was. When was the last time he really slept? Yesterday? The day before that? Longer? John frowned. When was the last time he showered or did laundry? The over powering scent of generously applied cologne only barely masked the stench of body odor. His head suddenly felt very heavy and he rested it on one drawn up knee.

Either he must have dozed or Othello had amazing timing. The next thing he was aware of was the sound of squealing metal as the door swung inward on un-oiled hinges. "Mr. Franklyn, come with me please," Othello ordered, barely stepping into the room long enough to give the command. John jumped up and trotted out to follow. He was flanked by the two guards from earlier. They walked briskly down a few different hallways, deeper into the belly of the warehouse. John was starting to worry about his ability to find his way out should he ever need to. Othello said nothing as they walked, making no more noise than a cat as he glided beside John with a grace that belied his outfit. The grunts were no less skilled in moving. It made John nervous.

They entered a big room with a low ceiling. Moody green and blue lighting lit the space that was filled with couches and low tables and milling occupants. It was set up like a lounge. A long glowing bar dominated one corner. Brash music filled the air. Most everyone in the room was dressed in black and looked capable of doing damage in a fist fight. A few nearly naked girls ran around the room – dealing pleasure to whomever beckoned. Several girls looked to be younger then Maggie. It made John sick to his stomach and he averted his eyes from a Rated R scene that was unfolding to his left.

"This is our Officers Lounge," Othello yelled into his ear, straining to be heard over the music. "I imagine you'll work your way to this level soon enough."

John did his best not to grimace at the thought. Then he caught something in Othello's tone that he couldn't quite interoperate. It was…off. John's eyes scanned, quickly, each face in the room by turn as they made their slow way through space. One of the goons behind him had whistled to one of the girls and their interacting slowed his small entourage. Othello was smiling a cocky grin.

"You'll have to excuse Leon," he explained. "The man's only been through here twice. It's a coveted position."

John wasn't listening. He was trying hard not to listen to the noises around him, in fact. His eyes skipped a bit more frantically around the room. And stopped as they met a pair of gorgeous lilac irises. Long brown hair framed a perfect ivory toned face. She locked his gaze in place with an eyebrow arched stare. Recognition dawned instantly.

Astrid – his escaped car thief.

She didn't seem surprised to see him. In fact, there was something smug in her expression. She lounged on a long couch, leaning casually against the chest of a bald man in a black pinstripe suit. Her billowy white skirt and revealing blouse were tinted green in the lighting that was coming from behind the seating and shining down from grotesquely shaped sconces in the walls.

Her delicate hand flitted up in a small lazy wave.

It connected then. Her reaction – or lack thereof – and Othello's tone. They knew who he was.

"Franklyn, please keep moving."

He heard it clearly now. A hint of mockery hidden in the back of the man's voice.

One of the goons suddenly had a firm painful grip on his right elbow. Astrid smiled: a cold, dead thing that slid across her lips.

John nodded absentmindedly and shuffled forward. His right hand started to go numb. His world slowed to a crawl. It seemed to take hours to reach the door at the other end of the room. This door opened to a very dark, damp space. It seemed to be part of the original warehouse. Moonlight filtered through a tall set of old windows that stretched on for a while. It smelled like human waste in here.

Someone flicked on a work lamp that was clipped to a support beam. A big steel arm stretched over their heads, draped with chains that were probably used to load and off-load cargo of some sort. They chained John to it now, yanking his arms over his head hard and fast as he struggled against them. The action pinched a handful of nerves in his neck and shoulders. John's vision grayed and he moaned.

"What's going on, Othello?" he protested weakly.

"Please, Detective Sheppard, we both know who you are. But I would still like to know what you are doing here." Othello paced in a small circle around him.

"Y'know, so would I. I'm still asking myself that," John answered truthfully. Icy fingers of panic started to work into his mind. This was _not_ what was supposed to happen. And yet…and yet when he truly thought about it, he felt almost dead inside: resigned to this, as if his subconscious knew that this was going to happen all along. And he was ready to let it happen, he realized. The thought disturbed him more than anything.

"No backup? No SWAT team to burst in and rescue you? You _are_ ill prepared," Othello mused.

"That's what _you_ think," John muttered, hardly realizing what was coming out of his mouth.

"There is really only one thing that concerns me before you die, Detective. One more question."

"Peanut. I like peanut M&M's. I mean, plain's alright bu—"

"Who gave you the device?"

John glared at him. "The Kool-Aid man. Big red guy, can't miss him."

Othello didn't hesitate. He pulled out a Wraith Stunner and fired a shot that glanced off of John's left leg. An icy fire replaced feeling from his knee down. John felt the blood drain from his face.

"That's it?" he managed to force past clenched teeth.

"A warning shot only, Detective. I had hoped you were a man of good sense."

John smiled bitterly. "Nope."

His head dipped forward. Leon the goon landed what felt like a brick to the side of his face. It ached – Oh did it ache! – but he just spit and kept his head now safely nestled between his upraised arms. Leon did a roundhouse into his chest, sending him swinging backwards on the chain. Agony ripped down his shoulders and was met by its cousin from the land of cracked ribs. John grunted. His eyes slid closed as the next blow came, aimed lower, for his stomach. The air whooshed out of his lungs. John was glad that he didn't have the air to fuel the cry that burned in his throat.

And so it began.

John once read that despair wasn't like what some people thought it was. It wasn't this loud anguishy emotion that made you wail and tear your clothes and put on sack cloth and ashes. This was not despair. No, despair was when you no longer had the energy to wail. It's when you no longer had the energy to resist. It was when you just followed like a dumb lamb to the slaughter.

John fancied that he was at the precipice of despair: dangling by his wrists just at the edge…just waiting. Waiting to be…pushed…

Why, exactly? Because he was getting the snot beat out of him? Well…no. This felt deeper. Brought to the surface while he hung here, panting in pain. Huh. Where did that come from? He'd been good now for a few weeks. He'd been coasting through life as fine as could be.

He blinked.

Leon had stopped beating him.

Just…stopped.

The other goon was gone. The door was open and oozing with a darkness that was not there before. He frowned. Leon was staring at that door with something close to dread on his face. Othello was muttering into a cell phone.

"W-what's going on..." John mumbled. Othello's eyes flicked to him for a moment then left. The man suddenly tapped Leon on the shoulder and walked off swiftly in the direction opposite the open door. Leon was close on his heels. Their movements were anxious but still smooth as before.

John blinked and they were gone. Ghosts in the dark.

He was alone. The prospect almost frightened him.

He didn't know how long he hung there but his arms were both numb and his leg throbbed in time with his chest. The moon was gone and the night was still black. His mind drifted for a while until he must have passed out. When he opened his eyes, a gun barrel peeked through the open doorway. He frowned at it. A head soon appeared behind the gun. Warm brown eyes swept the space, landed on him, widened.

"_Clear_."

A body now moved swiftly and smoothly into the space. Two more moved in behind the first, fanning out to search the large room. John knew the strategy well. The first person, a short woman with auburn hair pulled back into a short pony-tail, sided up to him. She scanned him, eyes lingering on his face.

"_Clear!" _came a shout from somewhere behind him. The woman seemed to relax a bit.

"My name is Teyla, you will be safe soon, Detective," she said in a pleasant voice.

"…hey," John muttered.

"Colonel, Major, would you assist me?" she asked two men who had worked their way around the room and ended up back at John. Together, the three lowered John's body to the floor. He tried not to but a cry of pain edged past his lips as blood flowed into numb hands. Teyla gripped his hand in silent support. A wave of dizziness washed over him once he was prone. He closed his eyes against it and concentrated on breathing.

"Thanks," he offered weakly. The woman named Teyla smiled at him.

"You think you can walk, Detective Sheppard?" This came from one of the two men: the young black man with a kind face.

"Um, yeah," John said. It wasn't exactly a lie. He could limp. The two men pulled him upright and John ground a curse past clenched teeth. He hobbled between them as Teyla led the way out. The Officers Lounge was empty and dark. It smelled of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Funny, he didn't notice the smell the first time through. Glass crunched underfoot. It was unnervingly quite otherwise. The soldiers said nothing to him.

His body ached.

The trek to the outside world was longer then he would have expected. John's mind kept wandering: finding monsters in the shadows. Monsters that he watched with mild fascination.

The corridors were a virtual labyrinth that made his head hurt even more. He wasn't entirely sure how the pretty woman named Teyla was able to navigate the halls so quickly. Then again, he wasn't exactly paying close enough attention to know if she really was navigating with such ease.

The younger man shifted and repositioned John's arm. John frowned. It was the first time he realized that the men had actually taken most of his weight between them.

It was going to be a long day…

XxX

John sat numbly in the back of the ambulance, his leg draped over the edge so that his foot brushed the cracked and pitted pavement – he barely felt the contact and that was only partially because of the wraith stun. An EMT with squeaky gloved hands handed him an ice pack which John gingerly placed on his face. He shut his eyes and savored the throb of bruised flesh as it melted into numbness. A fast paced babbling that was steadily drawing near pulled his focus back to the scene around him.

Dr. McKay was having an animated conversation on his phone as he picked his way over to John. The man was red faced and fuming by the time he snapped his phone shut. For a moment, he said nothing, just breathed noisily and stared off into space. John shifted uncomfortably. He rubbed at a spot of blood on his unbuttoned dress shirt: his favorite dress shirt.

"They're gone," McKay finally said.

John didn't have to ask who 'they' were.

Specter.

He'd only been rescued twenty minutes ago but Teyla and company had filled him in on what had happened. Dr. Jackson had gotten worried after John had called. A word to Rodney and they sent a team after him. Not just any team: Dr. McKay's team. Colonel Lorne, Major Ford, and Teyla Emmagan. Jackson was there to, along with a slew of marines that scurried throughout the warehouse like ants.

McKay looked at him for a few moments, as if he expected John to say something. John spaced out after a few seconds.

"Sheppard!"

John's eyes refocused on but he said nothing.

"What were you thinking? Huh?"

The sharpness in the words took John aback.

"Wait…what?" he managed. McKay glared as no man should ever be able to glare.

"Why didn't you call someone? Or wait?"

"I called Jackson—"

"And then hung up on him! Seriously, what were you thinking?!"

John hesitated. "I…I don't—"

"Did you expect to be a hero or something? Run in there and save the day? Take out the bad guys single handedly?"

"No, I—"

"You are an _idiot_," McKay spat. "We have been watching this place for the past three days now—"

"Hold on," John interrupted, "you had eyes out here? And you didn't tell me?"

McKay scoffed. "Do we answer to you? You act as though you're in charge of something, as if you're important! You're an army grunt, Detective. We just didn't realize how stupid a grunt until now."

John felt the blood drain from his face. In anger. "I didn't know."

"Well, you also didn't know that he was supposed to show up today."

_He_. The Wraith.

John's cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"And now we've scared them off to save your worthless hide," McKay continued, spit flying from his mouth, "They are never coming back here! Our perfect opportunity to take him down is ruined, thanks to you."

"I didn't know!" John said a little louder this time. People were starting to stare.

"Who do you think you are?" the doctor challenged. "You aren't running a one man show here, Detective. You are not in the place for heroics." McKay put a hand on his forehead. "Sorry, we should have known you have a hero complex already. Guess I forgot." He dropped the hand and fixed John with a cold hard stare. His voice was low and quivering and dripping with sarcasm. "At least you didn't kill anyone this time – good job, you're a step above Iraq."

John felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach. He couldn't breathe for a second. McKay was breathing hard enough for the both of them. He had to move. Had to go. Just…go. Anywhere. He couldn't be here and sit. He needed—"Afghanistan…" he muttered as he snatched up a water bottle that was sitting beside him and pushed off the back of the ambulance.

"What?" McKay demanded.

John didn't look at him. He could barely speak above a whisper. "Not Iraq, Afghanistan." He limped away, staring solidly on the ground. Either he'd just zoned out completely or there was dead silence behind him. John didn't care which at this point: he just followed his feet – which seemed to be following an unused gravel driveway that wrapped around the massive building. There were fewer lights down this way. More shadows. He didn't really care. The sun was starting rise, making the horizon glow ever so slightly. He didn't see it.

John made it to the end of the warehouse before managing to sit on a stack of old balding tires without falling over. He suddenly realized how utterly exhausted he was. The water bottle he'd grabbed before had slipped from his fingers and rolled in the gravel.

He didn't care.

_At least you didn't kill anyone this time_…

John clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. A pressure built up behind his eyes until it hurt. He sniffed and grunted and spit to the side. His saliva was tinged red and left a metallic taste in his mouth.

…_this time…_

What about next time? How many people would he kill then?

John swore. His hands were shaking. He tried to hide the reaction by running both hands through his hair then gripping his skull between his forearms.

This was it. He was done. There was no way he could possibly keep working here with this over his head. If only he'd been able to keep driving. If only he'd been able to ignore that little voice in the back of his head that said to go back, to find the alien. To save the day. By now he'd be half way through Mexico and well on his way to Cuba or Brazil.

But that didn't mean he could try again. Or should. Sure, he wouldn't have any money this time but the prospect of hiding somewhere in the South American rainforest was tempting even if he had to start out as a street rat. He could just dig a hole in the jungle and hide: let the world forget he ever existed in the first place. Heck, he could even change his name.

A yawning dark loneliness lapped at the edge of his plan. His chest felt hollow. Loneliness wouldn't be so bad. It might help keep his body count low.

So now all he had to do was to get out of _here_. John looked at his surroundings for the first time. The warehouse was behind him. The main stretch of gravel was to his left. Another empty warehouse was in front of him. An eight foot wall of sheet metal cut off the gravel road to his right. Beyond the wall? Maybe it was an escape.

John planted a hand on the stack of tires and pushed his body upwards. Pain lit up a string of nerve endings from his feet to his head and back down to his stomach which contracted sharply in response. John was forced to stop and concentrate to keep from vomiting. When the worst of the nausea had been quelled, he took a few shaky steps to the metal wall. It was well rusted and dented. He took a corner of one sheet of metal and tugged it experimentally. It squealed but yielded to his pull, opening an inch gap that stretched to the bottom.

John stared at the gap for a minute. He was surprised by such easy success. Beyond the gap, the gravel eventually turned into potholed pavement and disappeared into a maze of factories and apartment buildings. The area was distinctly free of people.

_Freedom._

He gripped metal with both hands and pulled harder. An old nail pulled free as he curled the panel down. The gap opened a foot at the top, angling in and stabbings downwards. He could fit his shoulders through if he were taller. But then the metal stopped moving. John frowned. He pulled harder, the action sending pain shooting across his back. The sharp edges sliced into his palms.

His pulse thumped a little harder.

_No_. No, this couldn't be it.

He yanked harshly. The metal screeched but gap did not widen. Flakes of rust flicked off and got in his hair. John snuck a glance behind. He could see the pulsating lights from ambulances and police cars. He could imagine the accusatory faces and probing questions that waited for him like a hungry predator.

John's chest started to heave. He was trapped down here like a rabbit in its hole. Sweat prickled his brow and seeped into the cuts on his palms, making them sting. John heaved at the metal. Then he abruptly stopped when he realized how much noise it was making.

_No no no!_

John stared out the gap he'd made. The empty street mocked him. He felt sick again but there was no stopping it this time. He dropped to his knees and spewed into the dirt and stone, hands planted firmly for support as he gagged. His stomach emptied itself and he dry heaved for a few seconds before he was able to catch his breath.

A hesitant but gentle hand softly touched the place between his shoulder blades. John tensed but held still. His water bottle appeared next to his face and John took it with a quivering hand. He swished a mouthful of water around before spitting it out and taking a few sips.

"Thanks," he mumbled as he slowly straightened to see what marine or EMT had found him. Instead he found a young woman in a baggy black sweatshirt. Her hair was cemented into a faux-hawk and a gratuitous amount of makeup coated her face. Tear stains mussed what would have otherwise been smooth makeup job. A square of gauze was taped to the side of her neck. She couldn't have been more then seventeen.

"…welcome," she mumbled back. John squinted at her face.

"Amy? Amy Whitehouse?" He sat a little straighter. Her eyes widened and fear danced across her face. She started to stand. He snagged her wrist. "Wait, calm down. You're ok."

She cast a hesitant glance back towards the way he had come.

"Trust me," he said calmly, "there are only more people that way. Just calm down."

"What's happening?" she asked in a small voice, still not looking at him.

"It's a long story. Where did you come from?"

She looked at him as if she were just seeing him for the first time. With her free hand, she covered her mouth. Her pretty blue eyes turned away from him. "I was hiding over there," she muttered around it her hand. John followed her eyes and found a stack of barrels that he didn't really notice before.

"Where have you been?" he prodded. He could feel her shaking.

"I-I was…I ran." She searched around blindly. "They said t-to go so…I ran." Fresh tears slid down her cheeks. "Didn't tell me…they didn't tell me where to go…"

"Who said to go?"

"The officer," she said meekly. Her hand moved to the oversized sweatshirt and she clenched a handful of fabric. The thing went halfway down her thighs and smelled like cat urine. If she was wearing any sort of shorts or a skirt, he couldn't see it.

"Amy, have you been with Specter?" John forced himself to stand. Her eyes snapped to meet his. She blinked at the new rush of tears.

"I thought…I didn't know they… I-I didn't know!" She was starting to hyperventilate. John put a comforting hand on each shoulder. "He said they…that they would love me…It wasn't…I could be an officer…b-but that's not—" she sobbed, her words lost in rush of emotion. John pulled her close in a tight hug. She melted into him.

"It's ok. It's ok," he soothed. "You're ok, Amy. You're fine. Just calm down. How 'bout I take you home? You're dad's been freaking out."

She stiffened. "No! No I can't go home! I can't…I-I screwed up! He won't want me back!" she wailed. She was hysterical. "He'll know I messed up…he won't let me forget. He won't trust me anymore! I can't go home, please!"

"Hey, hey calm down, Amy," he pleaded. The poor girl was going to swallow her tongue at this rate. "Your dad just wants to know your safe. He doesn't care what you did. You hear me, Amy? No one cares that you screwed up."

"No, you don't understand!" She pushed back from him unsteadily and ripped away the gauze. A small tribal tattoo painted her neck. It was still new, dried blood marring her skin around the edges. "I can't ever take it back!"

John's heart broke for the young woman. He stared at her for a few seconds. She had hung her head in shame and stumbled back against the cold brick wall. "Amy, you can't ever take back what you did. Even if you didn't have a tattoo, you couldn't take it back," he reasoned.

"But I could forget it," she spat.

"No, no you couldn't. I would know."

She looked at him with disbelief clearly evident in her icy blue eyes.

John held out his hand. "Come on, let's get you home. Talk to your dad. Let him show you how much he missed you."

Amy closed her eyes. "No—"

"Amy, you still have a home to go back to. I would kill to be in your position. Don't throw it away."

She stared at him. John blinked. He didn't fully realize the truth of his own words until after he said them. Amy slowly nodded and slipped her hand into his. He pulled her forward and then gently pushed on her shoulders, guiding her down the gravel road. He limped behind her and she kept her pace slow enough for him to follow.

As they came near the flurry of activity, John stopped. His stomach clenched. He pushed Amy forward but stayed rooted himself. She turned and planted her own feet.

"I can't go out there by myself," she whispered harshly.

"You'll be fine," he insisted. "Just go on." John fidgeted. He eyed the closest cluster of people. They hadn't noticed him yet. If he could get away before they did—

"Not by myself," Amy affirmed. She watched as he hesitated. "You're running to," she concluded.

John said nothing.

She held out her hand. "If I have to go, you do to. Don't make me do this alone." Tears were welling up in her eyes. She was tense enough to snap if he didn't do something soon.

John sighed heavily.

No freedom today. Today he would help a girl find hers.

He took her hand and they walked to the nearest police car. John waited until she was settled in the cruisers back seat before calling the station. After dodging the majority of the questions that were shot at him, John shuffled off to find his ambulance.

He didn't remember much of the ride to the hospital. His mind was spinning chaotically. On the surface, he imagined he appeared very calm. He sat still. He was quiet as an EMT jabbed him with an IV needle. At worse, people would think that he was simply exhausted from his whole ordeal. And he was.

But inwardly John was frantically building walls around his emotions and checking his behaviors – if he stayed cool enough for long enough then he could get away sooner and avoid confrontation. But staying cool meant he had to contain the little voices in his head that were screaming for him to run and hide.

What had happened back there?

John massaged his temples.

The puzzle of his emotions just never ended. The questions never ended. Each answer just gave him more questions.

He didn't know anymore. Didn't want to know. Not how he felt, not how he should feel, not what he should do after today. Nothing.

The fight was gone and he had nothing but flight.

But that wasn't much to go on so he'd sit quietly, for now.

XxX

"You'll be fine, Detective," said a pretty nurse holding a clipboard in front of him. "The doctor gave you two prescriptions – one for pain the other is a mild sleep aid. You don't have to take either one if you feel you don't need it. Your follow-up appointment is next week." She handed him a pen and slipped a piece of paper onto the bedside table. "Sign here, please." She continued as he scribbled his name across the line. "No work for at least seven days." Here she fixed him with a stern glare. "You're ribs are broken which means no heavy lifting. Got it?"

John nodded. "Right, thanks." He slid off of the hospital bed and snagged his coat and cell phone from a chair. No heavy lifting? Well, driving didn't require lifting. Unless maybe his tire blew and he had to replace it with the oh-crap-my-tire-popped-and-now-I-have-to-drive-on-this-silly-looking-wagon-wheel-tire. Even then, he'd risk the pain of pulling his ribs out if it meant he could get away from here—

"Sheppard."

John snapped his head up. Daniel and Zelenka stood awkwardly in the waiting room. Well, Daniel was standing; Dr. Z was sitting in a blue upholstered chair.

He blinked and stopped walking. "Hi,"

"So what's the damage?" Jackson asked.

"Uh…some broken ribs, bruises." John frowned. "What are you guys doing here?"

"We thought you might need to go out and get a drink," Radak explained.

"It's ten o'clock in the morning."

"If you're not feeling up to it, we'll go another day," Daniel insisted.

"No…no, it's fine," John mumbled. He didn't really care at this point. "Thanks."

"Come on, we're meeting Lorne and the others."

Here John balked. "McKay's team?"

"Rodney isn't coming, he has a great deal of paperwork to do," Zelenka assured him.

Daniel grimaced. "I heard him yelling. Believe it or not, he actually doesn't blow up that much. He'll apologize eventually."

John shrugged. "I'm fine," he lied.

"Sure."

XxX

John remembered the doctors warning about mixing alcohol with his meds as soon as he'd walked through the door of Patterson's Tavern. He would have just screwed the warning and risked a coma except that he'd made the mistake of telling his two companions about it. They apologized as they ordered him a coke. He took the fizzy beverage and sat in a corner booth. McKay's team showed up a few minutes later.

The conversation around him was friendly and grew more boisterous as time passed and liquor loosed some tongues. John just sat back and sucked at his soda, saying as little as possible. For once, he was glad of the small crowd. They either didn't seem to notice his silence or were happy to let him stay quiet. The young major, Aiden Ford, kept up most of the conversation along with Even Lorne. They told stories of some of their adventures in the Pegasus Galaxy – stories that John actually found terribly interesting. For the most part, they distracted him from the frantic nagging voice in the back of his mind.

_Go go go go go!_ it said. _Don't sit around, stop wasting time! They will scorn you, hate you. You deserve it! Go go go go GO!_

John flinched, covering the action by taking a swig of cold soda that he didn't really taste. His headache was back, having bashed through the wall that Vicodin had built around his nervous system. John set the glass back down, the ice clinking more than it should have – which may or may not have been because of his quivering hands.

"Are you alright, detective?"

John blinked and the table was nearly empty. Teyla was the only one left sitting with him. A quick search and he found the four other men engaged in something that was apparently hilarious over at the bar, judging by the volume of the laughter. The pretty alien woman nursed a short glass of cranberry juice between her calloused but surprisingly delicate hands. She'd opted out of alcohol by choice, unlike him.

John took another swallow of his coke. "I'm fine," he insisted automatically. She regarded him with those warm, almond shaped eyes. Teyla wore a pair of tight fitting blue jeans and a flowery blouse that was a bit outdated but fit her nicely. The Moroccan inspired scarf around her neck was definitely in style and she twirled a tasseled end around the fingers of her left hand. Her index finger bore a long snake of scar tissue that wrapped around the appendage in a jagged asymmetrical coil.

"Detective Sheppard—"

"John," he interrupted. "Call me John." Teyla smiled. There was enough sympathy in the smile to make him nervous.

"John, forgive me for being so direct, but you do not look fine."

John frowned. "I have a headache."

She laid a comforting hand on his wrist. "I do not believe it is merely a headache."

John didn't look at her. She was kindly asking him to bare his soul to her. To strip down his psyche and lay it all out on the table. And he was considering it.

"I'm leaving tonight," he confessed.

She cocked her head. "Why is that?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I just…I gotta get out of here."

"To rest, of course. You have been through a great ordeal," she reasoned.

"No, I mean…for good. I'm not coming back."

"You're needed, detective."

He looked at her for a long second before speaking. "I don't…trust myself anymore."

That hung in the air for a moment. He blamed the Vicodin for sudden openness. Well, might as well keep going…

"John—"

"I mean, how can I? How do you screw up as badly as I do and still be full of yourself enough to keep going with the charade?"

"Charade?"

His hands flew up in frustration. "This, everything. The detective thing, the area 51 thing, all of it. It's a lie."

"How is it a lie, John?"

"Because I should be dead or rotting in some federal prison somewhere!" he shouted. The others were glancing in their direction with graciously concealed curiosity.

Too much information.

Time to go.

John shoved himself out of the booth. He could hear Teyla behind him and he lengthened his strides. The tightness in his throat spurred him as well. No way was he going to break down in front of her.

He'd made it outside and into the small alleyway next to Patterson's before he had to stop and breathe and stop his hands from shaking. John squatted down, back resting on the wall behind him, forearms on his knees.

It wasn't long before Teyla was squatting down in front of him. He refused to look at her.

"John? All men have, and will have, made mistakes. You are not alone. And you must not let yourself be destroyed by it."

"I've killed a person," he spat. "How many have made that _mistake_?"

"I have," she said quietly.

John stared at her. "More than once?"

Such a sorrow crossed her features that he had to turn away. It was sorrow for him. And he did not deserve it. "This is not about last night, is it?" she asked.

___No. It wasn't. The truth of that surprised him. Wasn't he done yet with what happened in the war?_

___No. Apparently, not._

_"__At least I didn't kill anyone last night," he muttered. _

___She didn't say anything for a while. John's calves were cramping. He started to stand only to have her soft hand come down on his shoulder ever so gently. "We must all learn from our mistakes, John. And let them go. Or you will be consumed by them."_

_"__I need to go," he whispered. His voice cracked._

_"__Stop running."_

___He couldn't look at her. He wanted to believe. He wanted to embrace some sort of forgiveness. How could he? How __dare ____he? They were still dead and him begging forgiveness from corpses wasn't going to change their condition._

_"__I'll just screw up again."_

_"__Yes."_

___Her blunt answer took him by surprise. "What?"_

_"__You will make more mistakes but you can hope not to make the same ones. If you learn from what you've done and let it go." Teyla gave him a sad smile. "You did not cause anyone's death last night. Did you not even save a young woman?_

___John shrugged awkwardly. "I didn't exactly save her."_

___His cheeks suddenly flushed. He must look like a complete sap to this woman. This stranger. Who now knew the status of his soul better than he did. Great._

_"__Sorry," he muttered as he pushed himself upwards. Teyla rose smoothly with him._

_"__There is nothing to apologize for," she insisted._

_"__I didn't mean to unload on you like that." He still blamed the Vicodin._

_"__I understand, John. Do not worry."_

___She, mercifully, didn't wait for the awkward pause that would have taken over the conversation. Instead, she walked slowly back towards the tavern. And John…John followed. The frantic inner voice had not been muted, or even lowered in volume. What she said had made sense, a lot of it. But was he faced now with a new problem: to learn from it and let it go, one must forgive one's self. That wasn't exactly the easiest thing in the world to do. _

___Especially not for him._

___How could he let himself off the hook?_

___He could…he could somehow make up for it. _

___No._

_Yes.____ He could earn some sort of forgiveness, absolve his guilt._

___Slowly._

___Maybe._

___No guarantees._

_Please, God…___

___John clenched his shaking hands into solid fists. His legs were weak but he willed them to go forward. The noontime sun warmed his shoulders and kissed the back of his neck. For a few seconds, he felt detached from himself. Warmth blossomed around him. Grit crunched under his shoes against the cracked concrete sidewalk. The fresh paint of the doorframe was tacky under his palm. _

___A small, smooth emotion rolled across his mind. Small, very small, and something he hadn't felt in its authenticity since he could remember. It took a good second to identify, as fleeting as it was. Even then, he wasn't sure he had it right but he thought he might dare to name it._

___Peace._

___And then it was gone. But it was enough to send strength into his limbs. _

___John took a deep, steadying breath, pushed open the door, and walked past the threshold._

___-_

___-_

___-_

___**Fin.**_

___**A/N: I'm not overly satisfied with the ending. I'm terrible with endings. It just seems too…abrupt. Any suggestions on how to change that would be welcome.**_

___**Also, I would like some help with a few things. I need suggestions/co-writers for Episode 5. If you have any or would like to co-write the episode with me, let me know. And I'm going to introduce a woman into John's life - someone to love :)… Yes yes, I can hear as you scream TEYLA! but I must avoid that option – for now, anyway. Gosh, that's far too typical! Don't you know me by now?! Anyway, I wanted to know if there are any specific traits our lovely should have. I have an idea in my head but I thought it'd be fun if ya'll were in on it because you, the reader, create the story as much as I do. **_

___**Please and thank you :)**_

___**-Arem**_

___**P.S. – I'm including a very personal note about this story in the next chapter. Do with it what you will.**_


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